


Kind of Blue

by Mrs_Spooky



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Spooky/pseuds/Mrs_Spooky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is interrupted while performing one last favor for a dear friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He had no idea how long he had been sitting on the bed, numb, staring out the window on what was looking like a fine spring afternoon. His eyes wandered to the white ceramic keepsake on the night stand with the child’s handprint pressed into it. He picked it up and stared at it for a bit then pocketed it.

It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes or even hours later, he finally rose, and, lowering himself to his knees, he reached under the bed and pulled out the stack of record albums that had resided there for years. He noted dimly that there was no dust on them. He sat back down on the bed hugging the albums to his chest to try to fill the emptiness he felt inside and resumed his gaze through the window.

Finally, Napoleon heaved himself off the bed and carried the albums into the apartment’s dining area to set them carefully on the table with the hand print, adding them to the guitar, collecton of books, medals from his friend’s military service and other pieces of the sparse memorabilia collection in the apartment.

 

***

 

It had been two weeks since they lost contact with Illya. He had completed his assignment in Bhopal and was reporting that he was on his way out the country when he was cut off, mid transmission. A week of searching the area yielded no clues as to his whereabouts or his fate. Napoleon had finally been called home, Illya being presumed dead. He supposed it was going to happen at some point, that one of them wasn’t going to make it back from an assignment, but Napoleon still wasn’t prepared for when it actually happened. Maybe he was in shock, but the full weight of the enormity of the loss didn’t hit him until he came home.

When he returned from India Waverly offered condolences, watching him carefully as he spoke, “This has to be very difficult for you, Mister Solo. I know you and Mister Kuryakin were close.”

_‘Close?’ He was my dearest friend and he took half of me with him. ‘Difficult’ isn’t the word._

“Mister Solo, I think it would be best if I assigned you to Section I for the time being. Your assistance is needed with reviewing field reports and planning strategy for upcoming assignments. We could also use your help in assigning our newer, younger, agents to assignments as they arise. I will be retiring at some point and since you are next in line for this position, you should have a chance to get your feet wet for when the time comes.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

“For now, though, you should take the week off. Take a week. You are all Mister Kuryakin had and his apartment and property needs to be handled. Do let me know if you need any assistance.”

With that, he dismissed his chief enforcement officer. Napoleon left rather stiffly, Waverly noting that the normally ebullient Solo had been quite subdued, overhearing remarks from some of the staff that nobody had seen him smile since he returned from searching for Illya. All attempts at condolences were met with nothing more than a nod. _It can’t be helped but close relationships are often formed between men who faced death together and it’s wrenching for the one left behind._

Napoleon was next in line for head of Section I and Waverly had to be sure he had it in him to send young men and women on assigments with the possibility of their not returning.

 

***

 

Waverly gave him a week to take care of Illya’s property and time to grieve before jumping back into work. He would have preferred to work, but he did have one more thing he could do for Illya.

He scanned the collection on the table. This stuff he was going to keep. He didn’t know for sure, but he felt that Illya would want him to have it.

Looking through the kitchen, he noted that the refrigerator and cupbards were stocked with food with the expectation that the owner would return to eat it. Napoleon almost smiled to himself at the thought of his friend’s appetite. How he remained so slender considering what he ate never failed to amaze him.

The food could be donated to the Salvation Army. The furniture and books to various church groups and the Russian community in Brooklyn. He would make the calls tomorrow, he decided. It was late Tuesday afternoon, he had time. 

Unwilling to leave Illya’s apartment just yet, he sat down on the couch. Inspiration struck, so he rose and sifted through Illya’s hidden record collection, thinking he wouldn’t have to hide them any more, and selected the Miles Davis album, Kind of Blue. Turning on the record player, he loaded the album and selected a song at random, “All Blues.” He thought playing Illya’s favorite music would give him a sense of his presence a little while longer.

The piano was joined with horns and snare drum into a bluesy jazz piece that he found quite pleasant. He stood at the player reading the back of the album.

“That one was always my favorite,” came the voice behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon started violently, whirling around to gape at the apparition with right arm in a sling who had just entered the apartment.

The sultry horn filled the room as neither man spoke. Both stood at opposite sides of the room, one, his mouth agape, the other looking tired, studying him with a smile he wore only in his friend’s presence. Illya glanced at the pile on the table, “So the looting has started. Find everything you need?”

“Son of a bitch!” Napoleon exploded, and tossing the album cover on the table, he rushed over to tightly embrace his friend. The “OW!” made him shift his grip, but he still didn’t release him, Illya’s good arm reaching around in whatever hug he could manage with one arm. Napoleon squeezed back the tears, swallowing the lump in his throat that was threatening to choke him. 

For his part, Illya was delighted to be home and to see Napoleon again. He knew Napoleon could take care of himself, but still worried about him. Coming home and finding Napoleon there was a joyful surprise.

“When did you get back?” Napoleon asked into Illya’s hair, still not letting go.

“I arrived in New York yesterday,” he responded. “I spent a day in Berlin before that. We tried to contact you, but you couldn’t be reached, otherwise you’d have known sooner.”

Napoleon released his friend, who patted his arm then moved to sit heavily on the couch, Napoleon joining him. “You tried to call?”

“Yes. We couldn’t reach you on your communicator.”

“I aahhh, turned it off,” mumbled Napoleon, red-faced. “I had the week off and didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

Illya nodded. “We tried your apartment, but nobody answered. They’ve been trying to reach you for two days. Mister Waverly is about to launch a search party.”

Napoleon patted himself down for his communicator but realized to his chagrin he had left it back in his apartment. Illya held up his own with a wink.

Napoleon opened channel D and asked to be connected to Mister Waverly, who picked up immediately.

“Mister Solo, we were about to go searching for you. We’ve been unable to reach you for two days.”   


“Yes sir, sorry sir. I shouldn’t have done it, but I turned it off. I guess I didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“We couldn’t reach you at your apartment. Where have you been? People here are worried about what happened to you.”

Napoleon exchanged a look with Illya, “I’ve been here, at Illya’s sir. And I’ve been in and out so if you tried calling here, you could have missed me.”

There was a long silence. The friends looked at each other, knowing nobody thought to try calling Illya’s apartment.

Finally, “Mister Kuryakin should have arrived home by now, are you at his apartment now?”

“I am, sir. He’s sitting right here and is about to fill me in on what happened with him.”

“Very good. You still have the rest of the week off, as does Mister Kuryakin, so make good use of it. And Mister Solo: Don’t ever go incommunicado again.”

“I won’t sir, sorry sir.” then he disconnected.

He handed the communicator back to Illya, “What happened? You were reporting that your assisgnment was complete and you were cut off. I looked for you for a week, but you were gone.” His voice broke, “We thought you were dead.”

Illya leaned back, resting the back of his neck on the couch and closed his eyes, allowing himself to finally relax, “There were two THRUSHies left alive when I finished that weren’t about to give up. They must have been the ambitious type. My car was ambushed, I was shot,” he pointed to his shoulder, “and I had to fight my way out. I managed to dispatch them but not before one of them broke my arm. I was already outside the city in a desolate area. A young lady picked me up and took me home to her family. They found a doctor who fixed me up, but I was separated from my communicator and I couldn’t move. They helped fight off the infection, but I wasn’t in any condition to be moved for more than a week. They took me to the airport as soon as I could travel and I caught a flight to Berlin. I contacted UNCLE there who put me up for a day then shipped me off to New York. Not much in the way of telephone communication until I arrived in Germany.”

Illya’s eyes were closed. Napoleon was watching him closely, “How do you feel? You ok?”

He opened his eyes, “Fine. Just hungry.” Illya moved as if to get off the couch but napoleon laid a hand on his friend’s uninjured shoulder and held him down. 

“I can find you a snack now, and we can order in. What did you feel like eating?”

“Not Indian food,” Illya said quickly. “I love it, but I’ve been eating nothing else for two weeks. A hamburger would be great.”

Napoleon phoned a burger joint a few blocks down that delivered and ordered them each a hamburger, fries and soft drinks. Then he rose to put on water for tea and grab a box of crackers for Illya to tide him over until the food arrived.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Illya feeding himself crackers as Napoleon fixed his tea.

“We only have a couple more years of doing this,” Napoleon mused, “then we have to decide on a desk or retirement and do something else.”

“A desk has no appeal for me. I’d be happier in a lab.”

“Or we could retire from UNCLE and start our own business.”

Illya considered this, “Mister Waverly’s been making retirement noises. I think he’s counting on you to take over for him.”

“Yeah. In fact, when we thought we’d lost you, he gave me a week off and said he was reassignning me to Section I, doing some of his job.”

Illya turned to look at him appraisingly, “And what do we think of that?”

“I don’t know. I like planning and coming up with strategies, but not being able to actually carry them out… That’s half the fun.”

“Yes it is. And,” he shifted painfully in his seat, ‘I’m beginning to understand why U.N.C.L.E. retires field agents at forty.”

Napoleon answered the knock at the door and paid the delivery guy. He retrieved a couple of plates and loaded a burger on each, the fries coming in their own little bowls and the drinks in cups. Illya leaned forward to unwrap his burger and noticed it was a thick one that he would be unable to eat one-handed.

“Looks like I didn’t think this one through,” he said ruefully, picking his up with one hand and losing most of it to the plate.

“Slight tactical error on your part,” Napoleon grinned. “Need a little help there?”

“I think I’ve got it. Might need a fork though.” 

Napoleon retrieved one from the kitchen as Illya was wolfing down whatever portion of his burger he could get to his face before it fell back to the plate.

“Sooner or later though, you’re going to have to return to the Soviet Union, won’t you?” Napoleon asked him between bites, dreading the thought.

“About that,” started Illya, awkwardly scooping the remainder of his burger off his plate, “I am not going back.”

“You’re not?” Napoleon paused, french fry halfway to his mouth. He would have grinned but for his partner’s furrowed brow.

“I talked to my commanding officer when I was in Berlin, he had been trying to reach me too, it seems. He defected to the West in London last week. He said there was another purge going on. Anyone too sympathetic to the West was being sent to the Gulag, or shot if they were lucky. He said since I’ve spent most of my adult life in the west between France, England, West Germany and the US, I was in the government’s cross hairs. He said if I couldn’t defect to the US, I should try Canada or England. Those officials that approved my loan to U.N.C.L.E. have been purged. He got out before they got to him.”

Napoleon listened, severely conflicted. He was overjoyed that his partner wouldn't have to leave, but the thought of how this would affect Illya saddened him. Illya delivered the news matter of factly, but his eyes revealed how much it pained him that his own government would consider him a traitor and would want to kill him.

“If there’s a bright side in all this,” Illya continued, “I won’t have to hide my records under the bed any more.”

“What are you going to do?” 

“Mister Waverly is already working on getting me permanent resident status in the United States,” Illya answered, again sitting back on the couch and closing his eyes. “Eventually I can apply for citizenship, but that’s years down the line. As long as they don’t make me go back to my country of origin while waiting, it’ll be ok.”

The sun had gone down, Illya turning on the lamp at his elbow. He was glad to be home and happy to be home with Napoleon. If anything said ‘home’ to him these last several years, it was Napoleon. It broke his heart that he couldn’t go back to the land of his birth, but he found that life in the West was suiting him, mostly. And he didn’t want to go anywhere where he couldn’t see the man who was more a brother to him than anyone he had ever known. He had no family, but Napoleon was his brother and he was far too attached to willingly leave. And right now, he did not want to be alone.

Napoleon watched his friend who appeared to be falling asleep. “I should go home. Go to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Wait,” Illya started, forcing his eyes open. “No, you don’t have to go.”

Napoeon stood, gazing at his friend in the silence as the album finished playing. What a rollercoaster the past few weeks have been, convinced Illya was dead only to find he was alive. He knew one thing, if he was in charge, he wouldn’t want Illya going into the field any more. He didn’t think his heart could take the real thing should anything happen to him.

Guessing Illya’s meaning, “I’m just going into the bathroom to wash up. I’ll be right out, ok?”

“ ‘k, hur’ back” came the sleepy response.

Napoleon wanted to shower, but decided that could wait, so he just washed his face instead. He stepped out of the bathroom and headed back to the bedroom and retrieved a couple of blankets from the closet and a pillow off Illya’s bed and padded out to the living room. Illya hadn’t moved from his position.

“Illya?”

No answer. Napoleon smiled and placed the pillow at one end of the couch. Setting the blankets on the chair, he removed Illya’s shoes then wrapped his arms around Illya and laid him down, pausing to lift his legs up onto the couch, then dragging him to lay his head on the pillow. He gently covered his friend with the blanket. Illya looked so peaceful and he was alive! He decided the only thing worse than Illya being dead was him being dead and not being able to give him the burial he deserved. He hated both thoughts and was glad that was put off, hopefully indefinitely.

He thought about heading into the bedroom to sleep but decided to curl up in the chair next to the couch. It was fairly comfortable and it was just for one night. He pulled the second blanket over him, knowing Illya didn’t want to be alone. Neither did he.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration to write this hit me in the shower. I was getting ready to go out for a few hours and this HAD to be written. NOW.
> 
> It's a tad longer than I thought it would be, hope that's ok.
> 
> This takes place some time after the events of the last episode of Man From U.N.C.L.E., ""The Seven Wonders of the World Affair" — Part 2"


End file.
